The Academy
by BlameThePlotBunnies
Summary: "He'd grown up with these boys... He knew them inside out. That was, with one exception. Mycroft Holmes was a mystery. No one else seemed to care, after all, he was only the headmaster's son. Greg was ashamed to say that, for the last five years at least, he hadn't much cared about the Mycroft mystery either." Warnings for child abuse, bluntly discussed but not graphic, T for that.
1. Chapter 1

**A.N Okay, so I've been snowed under with uni and stuff and I've not been updating so often as i'd like, but here's another peace offering I've dug out for you guys.**

**WARNING for mentions of child abuse of a sexual nature, bluntly discussed but not graphic.**

Greg Lestrade had been attending The Academy, as it was affectionately known by the boys that attended it, since he was twelve. He'd worked his behind off - to put it lightly - for a scholarship and got it. It had been hard to fit in, coming from the East End as he did, but he'd managed eventually. After five full years at the school, he was quite at home there. He had grown up with these boys and was on good terms with most of them, even if he didn't have any particular friend. He knew them inside out. That was, with one exception. Mycroft Holmes was a mystery. No one else seemed to care, after all, he was only the headmaster's son. Greg was ashamed to say that, for the last five years at least, he hadn't much cared about the Mycroft mystery either.

Greg had arrived back for the new term two days after everyone else, having been on holiday with his Aunt in Dorset. That was how he came to be up in the attics shortly before lights out, hauling his empty trunk up to one of the storerooms for the duration of the term. It was just as he was closing the door of the storeroom behind himself that he heard it. Little tiny gasps, tiny miserable sobs, muffled, as though whoever was making them had a hand over their mouth. He stood, frozen for a moment, just listening, pinpointing the direction of the sounds as he wondered what to do. It could be someone from one of the upper years come up here for a little private sob. It could be innocent. Or it could be a first former, homesick, though why they'd come up here he didn't know. He supposed it could have been a dare, to come up here, that whoever it was could be hurt. The sobs certainly sounded pained. Perhaps even a little panicked. He couldn't just leave without checking. He turned, slowly, and made his way towards the door from behind which the noise seemed to be emanating, careful as he went not to make the floorboards creak.

The door was ajar when he reached it. "Hello?" he called out, questioningly. "Hello? Is there someone there?" What a bloody stupid question, he thought.

There was no answer, of course, except that the noise stopped almost entirely. If it was an upper-school boy, they'd have told him to go away by now. He pushed the door open gently. The room beyond was, as they all were, stacked with trunks in neat rows. Greg walked slowly down the middle row, straining his ears for any further hints. Turning left at random, he peered down each row he passed. In the very last row he found the source of the noise: a skinny, pale first former, with curly, coal black hair and a tearstained face.

"Hey." He said softly, squatting down about a foot away from the curled figure.

The boy said nothing.

"I'm Greg." He added, gently. "What's your name?"

Once more, the boy said nothing.

"I'm not going to go away you know."

The boy looked at him, sniffing and wiping his face on his shirt cuff. "Sherlock." He said, softly, his voice a little croaky after the tears.

"Nice to meet you Sherlock." Greg said, smiling even as he remembered he'd heard the name before. Not a very common name, Sherlock. This had to be the head's youngest son. "You gonna tell me what's up then?"

"Nothing's up." He replied, a little scorn creeping into his voice at the colloquialism.

"No one cries like that for nothing, mate." Greg said, gently "Are they bullying you or something?"

"No! Nothing like that."

"Sure?"

"Yes." Sherlock gave him a look like he was stupid.

"Okay then." They sat in silence for a few moments. "Is it personal?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and, almost wryly, replied "I suppose you could call it that, yes." He shivered a little.

"You cold?"

"No."

Greg slid off his blazer and wrapped it round the younger boy's shoulders anyway. "I said I wasn't going to go away, and I'm not, so you might as well tell me."

"No."

"So it's not 'nothing' then? You can tell me, you know. I won't bite, I promise."

"Stop it!" Sherlock exploded, suddenly, with an expression that looked like he might burst into tears again.

"Stop what?"

"Stop treating me like a child! Just leave me alone! I don't want to tell you and I don't want your stupid sympathy! Is that really so hard to understand?!" He turned his back on Greg, struggling to his feet and trying to dash away. He didn't get very far before Greg spied that he was limping, and barely two steps further than that before he stumbled against the wall of trunks, clinging to it for support and sobbing.

"Are you hurt?" Greg called after him, scrambling to his feet as well

"Go away!" the kid gasped out. And this time there was no mistaking the pain in his voice.

"I can't, I'm sorry," Greg said, crossing the distance between them in three short strides and wrapping an arm around the child "but I really can't."

Sherlock seemed to give in at that moment, leaning heavily against Greg's shoulder as he cried

"You are hurt aren't you?"

"It's just b-bruise-bruising… there w-wasn't any blood." He sniffed hard again. "It'll go off in a d-day or s-so."

Greg stared down at him with a slightly horrified expression and the younger boy suddenly seemed to realise what he'd said, his own expression turning to one of horror as well.

"I think you'd better tell me what's going on." Greg said, firmly.

"I can't." Sherlock implored him "I've tried that. No one will do anything. I just get into trouble… Please Greg, please, don't make me say."

"Sherlock…" Greg gnawed on his lip, holding the kid tighter. He'd known the kid five minutes, he realised, and he was already ready to do anything for him

"Look." Greg said, after some thought. "Look, I'll make you a deal. I won't report this, okay?"

"Really?"

"I should, but I won't."

Sherlock sighed in relief.

"On one condition."

"Name it."

"You have to trust me now. Tell me what's going on."

"I-" Sherlock looked up at him, chewing his own lip, his brow furrowing. He simply stared for a minute or two, and then "Okay. Okay." He took a deep breath. "I'll tell you."

"I didn't want to come to school this year." Sherlock began, gazing out of the round, leaded glass window they were now sitting by, at the far end of the storeroom. "I'm a year young for the first. I never wanted to come here. I love learning, but I wanted to go somewhere else. Anywhere else." He took a deep breath, glancing at Greg to gauge his reaction so far. "Before now I went to a day school near home. I always had the term time as a respite from father."

Greg raised a questioning eyebrow "You don't get on then?"

"Oh he thinks we get on splendidly." Sherlock's voice was laced with bitterness. "I hate him. Isn't it awful of me, to hate my own father?"

Greg shrugged "I hate mine"

"You do?"

"He left, when I was about your age. He abandoned us. I think I have the right."

"I think I do to."

"Why?"

"Because… because… because he… he's… fond of me. He… in a… a… non-fatherly way."

"Sexually."

"That, yes."

"And tonight?"

"I thought it wouldn't stop when I came to school. I was right." Tears welled in his eyes, though he tried to ignore them. "I want to go home." He murmured, "I know I can't, but I want to."

Greg reached out an arm to him and Sherlock leant willingly into him. He had said he would trust Greg and somehow, he really did. Greg was just that kind of person. Sherlock cried for an hour. Greg rocked him gently the whole time.


	2. Chapter 2

**A.N Okay, so I've been snowed under with uni and stuff and I've not been updating so often as i'd like, but here's another peace offering I've dug out for you guys.**

**WARNING for mentions of child abuse of a sexual nature, bluntly discussed but not graphic.**

As soon as the opportunity came around, Greg spoke to Mycroft. He felt no guilt. He'd said he wouldn't report it, not that he wouldn't say anything to anyone. His opportunity appeared three days after he'd spoken to Sherlock when, at the end of the last class of the week, the history master asked them to return some books to library.

"I met your brother the other day." Greg said, conversationally, as they walked down a deserted corridor.

"Did you?" Mycroft looked a little surprised that Greg was speaking to him.

Greg suddenly felt mildly guilty, but hurried on anyway "Yeah. He was a bit upset see."

"Upset? Sherlock? What was the matter?" Mycroft asked the questions with an urgency Greg had expected, now that he was in the know about Sherlock. They came to a stop in the middle of the corridor.

"He, uh, he said he didn't want to come here, said he was a year too young for the first."

"He is, but he's as smart as a whip. He was homesick?"

"In a manner of speaking, I suppose."

Mycroft gave him an odd look.

"Look, Mycroft, it's a bit delicate but… I promised I wouldn't report him when I found him up in the attics crying, if he'd tell me what was wrong and… he did."

"Ah." It was as though shutters had gone down behind Mycroft's eyes.

"About your father."

"Yes."

"Well, I just… I just wanted you to know that, that I'd be, y'know, looking out for him a bit."

"Don't."

"What?"

"I shall, look out for him, as you put it. Put it out of your mind, Gregory."

"It's Greg, and I can't."

"You cannot change anything. Everything that can be tried, has been."

"Maybe, maybe not. I can be there for him though, and I intend to be."

"If you must, I suppose." Mycroft began walking sharply away.

He had reached the corner when Greg spoke next "I thought for a moment you didn't care, but I saw how worried you were, so it can't be that."

Mycroft stopped walking, but didn't turn or reply, choosing to stare out of the window instead.

"Then I thought about it, and it's obvious." The tension in Mycroft's back was rather incredible. It looked painful from where Greg was standing. He walked slowly over to where the other boy was standing, stopping a few feet from him and speaking softly. "He's doing it to you too."

Mycroft jumped as though stung and whirled around to face him "I'll thank you to mind your own business Gregory Lestrade!" He exploded, then he spun on his heel and strode away around the corner.

"Oh hell!" Greg muttered to himself, dashing after him.

"Mycroft! Wait!"

"Go away!"

"No!"

"Leave me alone!"

"One thing, that's all I want to say! Dear God, slow _down_!" Greg gasped.

Mycroft reluctantly slowed his pace. "One thing, then go away."

"The things your brother told me were in confidence."

"So?"

"So I would hope that you would realise that I will report neither what he has told me, nor what I may have guessed."

Mycroft stayed silent, but kept in step with Greg, who had the distinct feeling that he had been forgiven.

"I would also hope," he began, carefully.

Mycroft looked at him, sharply, his features suddenly worried again.

"that you might be able to extend the same confidence in me."

Mycroft regarded him thoughtfully. "Perhaps." He replied after a moment. "Perhaps I shall. We should return these." He added, shifting the books he still carried to draw attention to them.

"Probably." Greg replied with a wry smile.


End file.
